


I Hate Worrying About The Future

by cheesehunter



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Hiatus, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 23:50:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16650244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheesehunter/pseuds/cheesehunter
Summary: He’d seen the scythe so many times, but it’d always made him more lively. Not this time. He made his way back home hovering above the pavement, or at least that’s what it felt like.xxxFall Out Boy is broken (up) and so is Pete.





	I Hate Worrying About The Future

**Author's Note:**

> IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH GORE, TURN BACK.
> 
> So, I was just scrolling through tumblr, minding my own business when,,,,, wabam! THIS -> https://lake-effect-kids.tumblr.com/post/179131408979/just-a-quick-thing-nothing-special so I'm like shitfuck... Thank you for letting me basically steal this and take it as a prompt @infinite_on_high. Without further ado; welcome to emo.

[Link in case the other one didn't work](https://lake-effect-kids.tumblr.com/post/179131408979/just-a-quick-thing-nothing-special)

* * *

 

Pete’s hands were a funeral when he went to bed; they wore black all over. His tired body laid in his cold, lonesome bed, and maybe he was being over dramatic about all this, but when wasn’t he?

 

A few drops of ocean rolled from his open, desert(ed) eyes and his soul escaped his lips in the form of a sigh.

“ _You’re wired! You’re fucking wired!” Patrick yelled, banging his fists atop the flour-covered table, and then, as soon as the camera cut, just shook his head, chuckling softly. “I can’t do this.”_

 

It felt like yesterday, shooting fireworks at his friend, dumb stuff really, they could’ve gotten themselves killed. Instead, they just got yelled at. No seriously, _what kind of freaks..?_

 

It felt just like yesterday, jumping off a roof with a fucking umbrella, among other dangerous and disgusting and dangerously disgusting things, of course.

 

It hadn’t been so long ago. It couldn’t have been so long ago.

 

Fresh only bakery. Driving a whole ice cream truck while talking loud in the night. Before that, Sugar. The accident, the blood, the laughing-cuz-I-don’t-know-how-to-react. And before, the first shows, the sweat, the cramped basements, the smell of beer, getting their name by someone just yelling it at them. Sleeping on people’s floors with the buzzing of cheap fridges. Eating whatever. Playing with Arma, kids were either mad in love, moshing and yelling along or just looking at them weird.

 

Pete rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his index. Everyone got good things, everyone! Not he. Half-doomed, yea right, more like completely doomed. His hand crashed open on the soft mattress with a thud.

 

“Fuck!” He yelled and the silence responded. The room was too crowded for there to be echo... Or maybe not even the walls wanted to talk to him.

 

The pile of crumpled paper in the trashcan were the second stage of grief. They had been ripped to pieces, and so had the pen been, broken apart until the ink ran cold and light down his hands and wrists. He’d made a mess. Even his cheeks were stained with it, and so were his sheets. White smudged with jet black.

 

The first stage, well, that was a few days ago, undoubtedly the most pleasant one so far. It was just living like he’d always lived, he didn’t need them anyway. He didn’t need Joe’s stupid hair in his face, nor did he need Andy’s stupid.. fuckin’… vegan bullshit and he needed Patrick’s calm-explosive anger even less. He didn’t need punches and then apologies and he didn’t need to be angry over everything at all times and he didn’t need to—shit… He didn’t need to bury his face into anyone’s neck, he didn’t need a best friend, he didn’t need…

 

xxx

 

Pete could’ve just phoned Patrick like you drunk-dial an ex, begging for them to take you back into their lives even though they’ve probably found a thousand times better, but Patrick wasn’t an ex and Pete wasn’t getting drunk. That never worked.

 

Instead, he went over, carrying white and red roses. He knocked on the door, his eyes set on the ground, impatiently awaiting the moment Patrick would open, because he would. He would eventually. If Pete tried hard enough. Good things come to those who wait, isn’t it?

 

Sixty minutes of rain fell onto Pete’s shoulders before he angrily closed his fist onto the roses’ stems, letting the thorns prick him, letting them massacre his hands as he’d massacred them.

 

Whatever.

 

He’d seen the scythe so many times, but it’d always made him more lively. Not this time. He made his way back home hovering above the pavement, or at least that’s what it felt like.

 

Patrick had seen him, but that, Pete couldn’t know. He’d seen him and he’d purposefully forced himself to look away. He was still angry and upset and he couldn’t have Pete stand there with those sad puppy eyes and probably wax poetry about how much it made him want to die that the band was over, because he couldn’t afford to tell him “Well, sucks.” That’d be insensitive. Patrick didn’t want to be mean, Pete just got so easily hurt, anything and everything was a problem, anything and everything was about how much the world hated him-- at least that’s what it looked like sometimes and Patrick was sick of it. Patrick’s heart was tired of beating for two. Pete needed to develop some serious survival instincts and it wasn’t by leaning on him that he’d get them.

 

xxx

 

It wasn’t until days after that Pete had actually, by all standards, gone batshit crazy. He’d never believed much, and maybe if he had, this wouldn’t be so strange, but as he lay in his grave-like bed, inside his mausoleum-like house, feeling like a horrible old man that had been so bad in his life no one came to visit him, as he lay there, he whispered softly, to any demon who’d like to listen, he swore he’d give half his life over, half his life for Patrick back. Pete had managed to convince himself Patrick might be dead in there-- and if _he_ isn’t, whatever they had surely is.

 

Gods wouldn’t answer his desperate pleas though, he was too stained, too dirty, there were too many maggots devouring his insides, feasting on his organs. They weren’t gold. They weren’t even copper. Just plain old vessels and tissues. Burst vessels by now-- the ones that still received any irrigation, that is. Red and white.

 

As he fell asleep, Pete hoped.

 

xxx

 

“Please, please let me in.” He begged, head pressed against the door. His cold, decaying hands lay palm-flat against the wood, “I’ll do anything just, please, shit…”

 

The door opened, to his surprise. His eyes widened slightly as he fell forward just to be caught by a warm pair of arms.

 

“Hey, okay, okay, relax--” The familiar voice started, but it was too much, Pete was already sobbing against his shirt, breathing in the scent.

 

“P-Patrick!” He choked out, gripping the fabric like Patrick would just run the other way. “Patrick!” He repeated, desperate.

 

“Shh, it's alright, it's alright, I'm here. Hold on okay? Sit down, I’ll get you a towel, you’re drenched, Pete.” Patrick informed him, shaking his head and sighing. The next moment, Pete was sat on the couch, snuggled against Patrick, a complete mess. 

 

"No, stay, please, it doesn't matter I just need you here, just please." Pete pleaded and Patrick couldn't say no, not with his best friend in this state, a blubbering mess on his lap, and all he asked for was for him to stay, like that'd fix everything. Pete hid his ugly, dead eyes, drying the Niagara falls into Patrick's chest. He didn't know why he was crying exactly, but he knew he couldn't stop.

 

"Pete, sweetie, you're drenched." Patrick said on a softer tone and Pete's vice grip on his shirt eased up.

 

"I'm sorry, I'm so-sorry. I don't wanna mess your clothes up, I'll get up, I'll walk right out, I'll--..."

 

"No, that's not.. Jesus, I don't care about my clothes, you're gonna catch a cold, come on, I'll just go get a towel and I'll be right back. Be strong for me."

 

Pete swallowed, slowly gaining back feeling in his limbs as soon as the towel was around him, Patrick coming back to hug him.

 

“Pete, do you realize you could’ve froze to death out there?” Patrick’s voice was unsteady, wavering and Pete hated that it felt so damn good, but he needed to know someone cared, because it didn’t feel like it.

 

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled half-heartedly, not meaning it. Warmth flooded back into his body by waves, and then, with a borderline hysteric little chuckle “Think I just sold my soul to the devil for you. Are you even real?” Pete questioned, eyes slightly dazed, still filled to the brim with tears and bloodshot.

 

“Are you high? What the fuck..” Patrick responded, a worried look to his eyes as he shut the door, going back to the couch so he could gently take Pete between his arms again. He snuggled into the touch gladly.

 

“No… I told the devil, ‘hey man, half my life for Patrick to come back’” Pete responded, yawning. “And he granted it.”

 

"What's this all about, Pete? What's happened to you?"

 

"I just need you."

 

"I'm right here, I never left."

 

"You weren't answering. I thought you hated me. I thought you were dead." Pete admitted sulkily, his voice muffled. "It's okay though, you're here with me now."

Patrick shook his head, holding Pete against him and carding his fingers through the boy’s hair. This was the furthest thing away from okay, Pete looking like a resurrectionist had dug him out of his grave, admitting his creepiest sins, his weirdest thoughts, hopes. It was the furthest thing from okay that the guy would be ready to trade half his life for something as mundane and lame as him. It was the furthest thing from okay that he’d stood there in the rain for such a long time Patrick couldn’t help but to open the door just because he didn’t want Pete to end up in the ER. It was sick that Patrick wasn’t even being given a choice whether he wanted him in his life or not. It was sick, yet, when Pete let his head rest back and slowly drifted off to sleep, he stayed there like an angel statue, singing softly.

 

xxx

 

Pete woke up with the most annoying headache and a pain in the neck. He was definitely not in his bed, and then he remembered when he saw Patrick’s face. He crawled out of his arms to lay on the other side of the couch, coughing into his elbow. Pete didn’t want to contaminate Patrick.

 

Patrick cracked an eye open, “Hey.” He said softly, and it felt like a stab into Pete’s stomach. He was feverish and shivering, but suddenly aware of how creepy he’d acted and..

 

“If you want me to go, I get it, I--”

 

“Stop that. No one wants you to go.” Then, Patrick precised, “Anywhere.”

 

He grabbed a blanket, covering Pete’s body with it and landing a soft kiss to Pete’s forehead.

 

“You’re burning up.”

 

Pete smiled weakly, his tired eyes revealing they still had a laugh in them. “That’s cuz you’re just so--” He cleared his throat “So damn hot.”

 

Patrick rolled his eyes but a smile was born on his lips.

 

“Go take a warm bath-- No wait, have you been eating properly?”

 

Pete gave a vague nod, shrugging.

 

“No you haven’t. Stay here. I’ll take care of…” Patrick made a wide hand motion towards him. “ Everything I guess.”

 

“You always have.” Pete said in a whisper as his eyes slipped shut again. He’d go help but his body was a dead weight.

 

xxx

 

It was weeks after the soup and the bath that it all emerged again, as Patrick was expecting it the least. The rusty gearing inside Pete’s brain looked like it was starting to roll again, and it was noisy and out of shape, and lacking a lot of motor oil.

 

“’Trick…?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Why do you stand me?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Did it actually work, my deal? Because if it did, I don’t suppose you’d be aware of it, but that’d be terribly manipulative and there’s no real way to check right? Because the devil surely has.. its ways of.. Messing with your brain and I guess..” He said softly, looking very guilty.

 

“Pete, stop, Jesus. Can’t you accept that maybe, just maybe, people like you?”

 

“So you’d have taken me in?” Pete asked, big eyes raised to meet Patrick’s gaze.

 

“I-- Eventually, yeah.. I don’t want you to die.”

 

“But you don’t want me here.. Right? You don’t want me here or anywhere near you ‘cause I keep messing everything up and-- What was it this time? Was it just me in general or.. Was it the stage gay? I could’ve stopped, I could’ve..”

 

“I said stop. You’re overthinking everything.” Patrick said, raising Pete’s chin with his fingers, discovering, as he’d supposed, glassy eyes. “I want you here, I just… I thought we needed time apart, but listen.”

 

Pete went stiff, afraid.

 

“Not if it’s just gonna hurt you, alright? I want you to be okay.” He added, wiping a tear away from the corner of Pete’s eye. “And you’re not, so, because I love you, and because I don’t want you to feel like shit, and because the only way right now seems to be having you close to me, you can stay.”

 

“But it doesn’t matter then!” Pete argued angrily, waving his hands around. “If you don’t want me around I’ll leave! If you think we need time apart, I’ll give you time apart! I'm not gonna jump off a--”

 

“Pete.” Patrick said in a warning tone and the guy relaxed a little. “I _want_ you here. I missed you."

 

Those three last words were enough. Pete let out a soft “oh.” Patrick couldn’t resist it anymore. Hell, he could barely resist it during Folie… Maybe it contributed a little to his frustration. Pete was just so pretty and _so_ overly friendly and he’d been around him for years, so close.

 

Patrick gripped Pete’s shirt, bringing him closer and closer until their lips were pressed harsh against each other, it was the smallest revenge he could take after years of teasing. Pete let out yet another “Oh.” But it was breathy this time around, as his hands traveled to the blonde strands to tug on them harshly. He needed to be wanted so bad, he needed someone to tell him he was still fuckable, he was still lovable. He needed Patrick to tell him. With three words, Patrick brought him back to life, and that night, he saw red and white.

**Author's Note:**

> I was expecting to do better butttttttttttt well this is it ladies and gents.


End file.
